PITY THIS BUSY MONSTER, MANUNKIND - John Marston Poems

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness--- electrons deify one razorbladeinto a mountainrange; lenses extendunwish through curving wherewhen till unwishreturns on its unself. A world of madeis not a world of born --- pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never thisfine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hellof a good universe next door; let's go